


Russian Roulette

by InkAtHeart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Death, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:48:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkAtHeart/pseuds/InkAtHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time had been on a trip to Hanamura. The team was still heavy-hearted and morose, but they needed to function regardless. Jesse had always made their trips to Hanamura easier, distracting him from the flood of awful memories that tried to drown him. Even with Genji so close, alive and there to offer comfort, Hanzo could scarcely breathe. He drank himself into a stupor, loaded one barrel and spun…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Russian Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> I BLAME THE MCHANZO DISCORD GROUP  
> SPECIFICALLY APPLES  
> SUFFER YE FOOLS

_Click_ …

The first time had been on a trip to Hanamura. The team was still heavy-hearted and morose, but they needed to function regardless. Jesse had always made their trips to Hanamura easier, distracting him from the flood of awful memories that tried to drown him. Even with Genji so close, alive and there to offer comfort, Hanzo could scarcely breathe. He drank himself into a stupor, loaded one barrel and spun…

The odds had been in his favor.

_Click…_

The second time had been in Dorado. Los Muertos holding the town at ransom, Overwatch had been called in not for the first time to loosen the gang’s hold. The memories here were nicer, and somehow that only made it worse. Their first kiss shared under a full moon. Hanzo recalled the taste of whiskey on Jesse’s tongue, sharp and spicy. He wanted more, took it, convinced himself that yes, he could have this. Just for the night…

Now Hanzo drank alone on a rooftop, beneath the same light of the full moon. Tequila, the bar was out of whiskey.

The odds were still in his favor.

_Click…_

The third had been in New Mexico. The abandoned ruins of old Route 66. A good place for Overwatch to lay low, a bad place for Hanzo. They had learned so much about each other here. Hanzo had found the gunslinger sitting out on one of the buttes, alone save for Peacekeeper. That was when he told Hanzo the stories. Deadlock. Blackwatch. Told the archer how he lost his hand, the significance behind his hat…and Peacekeeper. Gifts from his adoptive father – a gang member yes, but a man who had loved Jesse more than air and taught the man all he needed to survive.

Hanzo was sober when he sat at the same spot, the same sandy crop of rock overlooking the valley…

The odds were only out of his favor in statistics.

_Click…_

The forth was for Ilios. Hanzo was alone, investigating reports of possible Talon activity. If anything that was an excuse and Hanzo knew it, everyone knew it. The open space and salt air felt good against the archer’s battered body and heart. This had been where they first made love. Of course they had fucked before, excessively, vigorously. However their night together in Ilios had been different. Softer, sweeter. It had involved talks of _feelings_ and discussions of what they _were_.

It had also been the last place he had seen Jesse alive…

The two had been assigned to different places. Different groups. It wasn’t the first time, it shouldn’t have been the last. Though Hanzo knew, silently, that it could always have been their last.

When he returned to Gibraltar he was met with silence. Nobody looked each other in the eye, refused especially to meet Hanzo’s gaze. Tracer, who had always been the most vocal and animated, sat sniffling and still in the common room. The mission should have been simple, she told Hanzo when he sat beside her, but tell that to Talon. They had attacked an Omnic Peace Conference, brought the whole damn building down. Jesse was trying to be a hero.

The building came down. Dozens were lost, and among them, a Cowboy.

She lowered her arms, revealed the six-shooter she had been cradling to her chest. It was all they could find. Hanzo’s hand shook when he took it, thanked her, and left.

Time was supposed to make the loss of death easier. For Hanzo, the loneliness only made it harder. He kept Peacekeeper with him wherever he went, as if he could keep Jesse’s memory alive if he held it close to his heart. A heart that no longer wished to beat. A heart that felt as if it were constantly bleeding.

Five empty chambers, four of them spent. His odds were getting slimmer, and for the first time since he last heard Jesse McCree’s voice, he felt _alive._

Six months since he had seen his gunslinger. Since months since they last spoke, kissed, or touched. The silence in Hanzo’s heart was the worst part of it all. The cowboy had taken up so much of his life, his affection, his heart, that now each heartbeat felt like it echoed in an empty room.

Back to Route 66. It felt fitting somehow. He would join Jesse’s younger memories, that of his childhood and early adulthood. He wanted to meet that Jesse, no matter how aggravating he might be. No amount of annoying childishness could compare to the overwhelming agony Hanzo walked with now.

Settled into their spot, a bottle of whiskey down to the last drops by his knee, Hanzo took a breath. One of his last, he told himself. He pulled out Peacekeeper, didn’t bother to check the chambers. The barrel pressed to his temple, cold and smooth, somehow reminding him of familiar fingers curling into the fan of hair there. Another breath and he grabbed onto the courage gained by the alcohol.

Hammer back…

Finger trembled lightly…

_Click…_

He exhaled, hardly aware of the tears running down his cheeks now. Not fear. Not anxiety. Exhaustion.

The odds could no longer favor him.

“Hanzo,” a honey smooth voice filled the air, made the archer sway slightly before he looked up. His breath was stolen by wide brown eyes, Jesse McCree approaching him with hands raised as if to placate a frightened animal, “Hanzo…” he repeated, a little more desperate.

“You wait until now to haunt me?” Hanzo asked, voice breaking in a pathetic laugh, lips pulling into a broken smile, “You always did have a poor sense of humor.”

Jesse got closer. He looked so real… Fresh tears streaked down the archer’s face, and he saw them mirrored on the cowboy’s cheeks as he slowly knelt, reached a hand out. Gloved fingers looped around his wrist, gentle but firm, “Come on Darlin… Not like this. You think I’d want you to go out like this?”

“You left me,” Hanzo hissed and resisted the pull, the leather of the gloves so stark against his cold skin, “Dead men do not get an opinion!”

The mirage pulled again, but Hanzo steeled himself, pulled back and drew the hammer with a click. Jesse stopped and went still, fear in his eyes now. “Hanzo… Please don’t do this,” he begged, his voice a soft sound over the howling gust of wind that whipped over the New Mexico valley.

“I want to be with you,” Hanzo’s voice broke through his tears, “Now and forever.”

“You can, and it don’ have to be like this! Hanzo look at me, look me in the eyes and see… It’s me, I’m right here.”

Hanzo shook his head slowly, smiling, “I know. You’re always more real to me each time. Each time.”

“Hanzo…”

“I am a coward. I am weak. I can no longer take it… You wormed your way into my heart, then left me. Abandoned me.”

“I love you, Hanzo. You’re not weak, ain’ a coward neither. I’m sorry I left, I tried to get back as fast as I could. I’m here now. I’m here darlin’…” He leaned in, closed the gap between them and pressed their lips together. Fresh tears formed and spilled.

“Jesse,” he sighed, eyes squeezing closed, tears falling thicker, “You’re standing on air…”

Hanzo looked down, down the familiar body, to where the boots stood past the edge of the butte on thin air. The hallucination dispelled…

_Bang…_


End file.
